


The Fringe of Chaos

by fluffypapillon



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Action/Adventure, Eventual Smut, Exploring Mage Templar Relations Pre-Rebellion, F/M, Freeform, Gore, Mages and Templars, Non-Canon Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 18:00:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9336248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluffypapillon/pseuds/fluffypapillon
Summary: Anyone not familiar with the great legends of Thedas is either deaf, daft, or delusional. The famous Warden, hero of Fereldan, the Champion of Kirkwall, savior of the Free Marches, and as the world is once again tossed into a destructive abyss, the great Inquisition forms to heed the cry for reparations. Yet, what about those who are not destined to confront the chaos head on? The unlucky bystanders who are just as equally ensnared by the turmoil but not placed at the fore of it all, instead forced to ride on the edge of ruination as they attempt to not fall completely beneath the mayhem?A fanciful compilation of adventures forced upon and endured by an Elven Templar and Qunari Mage. Beginning just before the Rebellion, it will follow their path as events unfold around them. Some Canon Characters will make brief appearances, but the story is largely focused upon background plots that may or may not have an impact on history.





	

Heavy feet fell deftly upon the ground as the male approached the small doorway. As if it were home, he swung the door open and found himself striding through the threshold, pulling down his cloak and hanging it off his staff, which he placed to the side. Shadows were just beginning to threaten the world, dusk painting the sky in a glorious array of colors, but it was into darkness that he stepped until the door slammed shut behind him. A flick of a powerful hand was all that was needed to illuminate the numerous candles placed strategically throughout the chamber, the fewest possible to provide the maximum coverage. It may not have been sufficient for most, certainly it did not prove up to the task for reading or reviewing, but it was enough to cast a dull glow through the whole of the dim, dank hovel, and that seemed to suffice for the man.

With a resolute purpose, he approached a desk that was cluttered with a multitude of arcane artifacts. Books and diagrams littered the surface unobscured by the strange and somewhat menacing array of objects, and it was one such drawing that he sought just now. Lifting it up to the light, he studied it with silent contemplation, brow furrowed ever so slightly, before he held up with his other hand a vial filled with crimson fluid; blood, to any who knew anything. It was not fresh, either, for a swish of the container proved it to be languid and thick, congealed as it happened to be. Whatever displeasure this might have caused him, it did not halt his aim or progress; opening the vial, he emptied its contents into one of the more cryptic looking of artifacts; carved of bone, it was a spherical casing with a tapered top, gray engravings all around it. It did not resemble many known cultures, but he seemed quite confident in its uses as he hefted it in hand, swishing the liquid inside it until the ivory produced an otherworldly shimmer.

Satisfied, he replaced it upon the old, musky desk and turned to the room proper. A cluttered and clearly disused space, it was suitable neither for habitation nor the task at hand, but it would have to do nonetheless. Leaning bookshelves and wholly broken chairs lined the walls, having been displaced earlier in preparation of the forthcoming need, and he moved now to withdraw a new vial from one of his belt pouches. Near metallic powder occupied the clear glasses central chamber, and a quick removal of the cork allowed him to carefully shake it out onto the ground. Drawing an arcane formula, not unlike the circular sketch that had occupied the diagram upon the rickety desk, he moved with the practice and patience of one accustomed to the art. When finished, he brought over the artifact, now sufficiently shining with the blood steeped within, and placed it in the very center of the circle.

His brows creased ever so slightly once more. He waited several moments without result, before an idea occurred to him. Taking a few steps back, he sat himself upon the dusty ground with little delay, sitting in a most disciplined manner; straight, rigid, yet somehow at ease. Deep breaths preluded the resting of his eyes, and further inhales took him step by step away from this reality; he cast away the world of the physical for that place beyond, hidden so often from those who are too afraid to look, or incapable of such enlightenment. It was in this place that he opened his eyes, opened them to a room much unlike that from which he came. It was dark, but that was where the similarities ended - it was a burnt hovel of disaster and unrest. He thought it almost better than before. The only likeness that remained in truth was the circle and artifact, now floating in the center of the chamber, and it was to this that his eyes were drawn.

A moment or more passed before it arrived, and though the bravado in the entrance expressed a desire to impress, he could not help but blankly stare. The ground began to bubble, first, shaking and trembling and mimicking what, perhaps, the real ground might have looked like under fire. Then the embers emerged, bright red and smoldering, before the lava’s molten tongues leapt forth in truth. It appeared in its basest of natural forms, no deceit desired or conceived, a disgusting smile upon its flaming face. It wanted to mock him, perhaps, to show him its veracity and anger, its hatred and loathing, but he could not say he was very moved or frightened. He stared at it as one staring at an unamusing jester who simply wouldn’t leave the court - and after a moment, worse than that. It was too weak to have been summoned properly, he concluded, and that made it an utter disappointment.

But even disappointments sometimes had to be accepted.

\--------------------------------

As the sun languidly vanished beyond the horizon, the first touch of an evening chill started to creep across the lowland fields, until it was ensnared within the forceful embrace of a tempestuous wind. This was the initial indication of an ominous forecast, and a fitting prelude to the events that would soon transpire.

Though no member of the small party could accurately foretell to what extent their prowess would be tested, the accompanying silence was weighted with grim focus on the task ahead. A few days of hard riding and perceptive observations had gotten them this far, it had also given every one of them taxed muscles, armor sores, a near overwhelming compilation of bodily odors, and a significant dose of exhaustion. None of which could impede them nearly as much as the farmer had.

It had been just after midday when they were confronted with what they thought to be a blessing of Andraste, though soon revealed as a horrible diversion from the course. It was rare that anyone would step forward willingly to be questioned by such an intimidating band of Templars, yet this man had gone out of his way to flag them down so as to offer up a testimony which he swore would be beneficial to their cause. His eye was drawn to the symbol of their order which was emblazoned upon each chest piece of armor, and after an earlier encounter it was his ‘responsibility’ to help point them in the right direction.

The group had halted on his account, their steeds softly sighing with gratitude for the momentary reprieve while one of them was chosen to dismount and get a proper statement. Of course, it wasn’t every day a peasant farmer got to enjoy such a heady sense of self worth, and he intended to drag out that feeling as long as possible.

Ariahn hadn’t volunteered for conducting the interrogation, but she had matured enough not to fester with annoyance over such petty delegations of duty. Two years ago similar situations might have eaten away at her limited patience, and five years ago she likely would have spoken up about the injustice of it no matter how trite. However, now she simply acquiesced, letting the mild irritation slowly dissolve as she approached the curiously proud farmer.

The ensuing conversation was extensive, detailing too many things of no importance, and next to nothing that would make the hindrance worthwhile. It was actually quite telling, how much of that nonsense Ariahn put up with while swallowing down her increasing agitation with the plump elderly man. Not only did she suffer his incessant rambling, but through the stench of sweat, leather, and metal that pervaded the air around her there was an even more pungent odor which was nearly a tangible desecration of taste.

“Enough! I swear sir, if you do not get to the point of the matter forthwith I will cut out your tongue as compensation for the time you have unjustly stolen. Time that would have been better spent hunting the mage, no matter how aimlessly.”

The sun had only just begun its leisurely descent by the time her patience had finally dissipated, the outburst laden atop a quiet tone of disgust had effectively silenced the man for the span of a single terrified moment. It was fortuitous for them all that this had not caused him to clam up entirely, but she was quite certain he used the absolute minimum vocabulary while gesturing in the direction they needed to follow.

Recalling the wide eyed look that he wore as they rode off did little to ease the tension that was building among their group, and the short time since had all but depleted the lingering levity over that farmers absurdness. As the small decrepit building he described came into view just ahead, all of their attention became acutely attuned to the invisible yet tangible current of magic about the place. It felt as electric and destructive as the threat of lightning overhead.

No matter how experienced the Templar, magic was always unpredictable, and thus a confrontation with any rogue mage had the potential to be deadly. Ariahn had seen many a seasoned man fall beneath the explosion of tainted arts, and though she did not believe that magic itself was inherently vile, corruption and abuse of it often proved a temptation too great to resist. Even with the odds tilted in their favor, the five of them all well trained to oppose apostates of varying talents while their current target had last been spotted alone in his refuge, the outcome was far from certain.

In unison the modest detachment of Templars all slowed their pace, calming the sound of their approach until reasonably close enough to halt entirely. Torgen, their commanding Knight-Captain, raised his fist as silent indication that all were to pay him heed while he laid out the plan of assault. With minimal whispers and recognizable gestures, the troops were soon dismounting and moving in on the dilapidated shack.

Despite his oft surly and stubborn attitude, Ariahn harbored a wealth of respect for the commanding officer. He was hardly ever pleasant company, but his strategies gave them the best chance at staying alive and she had enough experience to know that not every Captain could manage such. The approach put her at the fore of battle, but it was her preference for such and not many others would have appreciated taking point. Plus, she happened to be the only other ranking member in their unit. Another chill wind swirled in angry gusts about them as the soldiers took up positions around the dwelling, causing a shiver to slink down along her spine. Goose-flesh spread beneath her heavy armor, attributed to more than just the sudden cold.

Wielding a single large blade, Ariahn braced the width of it at a defensive angle before herself, much as one might expect to see a shield be utilized. With this familiar stance she crept quietly to the front door, anticipating a barricade against their advance, yet the warped wooden panel was not locked and opened easily with an anguished groan. The sound should have given them away, which caused the woman to curse under her breath while swiftly entering the darkness inside.

There should have been candles to cast a glow about the meager space, yet Ariahn had been swallowed by blinding bleakness instead. Thus, she took in her surroundings with senses not dulled by the engulfing darkness. The wind howled as it rushed by outside, but she listened harder and discerned the faintest hum of a softly murmured chant. Amid the acrid notes of decayed wood and moldy interior she inhaled a hint of burning wax, indicating that somewhere nearby there were indeed candles aflame.

A younger Templar filled the space of the open frame behind her, but was ignored as she moved lightly across dusty floorboards in search of some hidden entrance to a connecting room. It did not take long to identify the trap door, less time to carefully lift it and reveal an underground tunnel. A flickering glow and enticing warmth seemed to beckon from below, yet the smaller confines of the path spoke of even more danger than anticipated.

“Lieutenant, shall I fetch the Captain?” The words were uttered on a shaky breath, a mere whisper that held mingled fear and uncertainty, spoken by the young man standing guard at the door.

“Yes, go explain the situation to him, Karl.” The confidence in her tone was intended to put the man at ease, and it seemed to have that effect as he turned about to do as ordered. It was important to her that he not be the first to follow, but she would not be waiting for word from the Captain as he likely assumed.

Leaping into the hole, her landing was made heavier by the weight of armor that had begun to feel as a second skin, until jostled around by such an abrupt fall. The murmuring chant continued somewhere further along the tunnel, the volume of it increasing with every step closer to the dim glow ahead. The crackles of magic grew as well, hurrying her pace until she finally came to an opening that resembled a deep roads cavern.

Pausing long enough to survey the area, she was reminded of a misplaced library. Shelves of books lined the confines of space, a few piled haphazardly upon a warped table, some strewn carelessly on the ground. The target stood within an etched circle of magical runes, clearly caught in the midst of some arcane ritual. The sight of it ensnared her focus, all else fading into the background as her stance was taken.

“Cease this vile rite, apostate. You have been caught. Your life is forfeit if you do not come willingly.”

The hardened severity of her tone was tempered only by the offer of mercy should the mage give up, yet she did not truly believe he would at this point. In fact, her muscles tensed as the man slowly turned to face her, his chanting hum still echoing around the small space. Though she could also hear the soft sounds of her men filing into the tunnel behind her, it did not ease the sense of dread that slowly gripped her heart.

“You… you are not who I expected. No matter.” This was said only after his dark gaze had fallen completely upon her, the remnants of his chant filling the cavern with a thickness of heady magic. His voice seemed hallowed, as if he spoke through the corporeal form while remaining a separate entity. This was not the first time Ariahn had listened to such a horrific sound, and she knew what would undoubtedly follow.

Attempting to end the battle before it could truly begin, the agile woman rushed forth but was immediately blown back by the unexpected combustion of arcane forces that erupted around the apostate. It was too late, the form of a man before her already started to shift and mutate into something new and unholy.

The blast had staggered her, nearly blinded her as well, but thankfully it left no lasting effects that would impede in another advance. The spell had not yet finished though, his ritual beginning to bear fruit in the summoning of aid from beyond the veil. As her men began to gather at the cavern opening they halted and watched in shock as the candlelight surrounding their target burst into great flames of anger, morphing into a duo of fiery rage demons.

Spewing out a vocal curse at the beasts which was returned by a roar of monstrous displeasure, the Templar woman again charged forth, initiating the start of their combat as the other men followed suit. Metal clashed against the scorching touch of demonic form, grunts and cries of anger nearly drowned beneath the sound of broiling fire. Swinging her large sword was a tricky feat in the confines of the tunnel, yet with deft grace the woman managed to defend herself as well as help corner one of the creatures.

She had not thought to waste a glance and see which other soldier had come to lend their aide, all of them had talents and training enough to be trusted allies against such a foe. The cornered beast roared again, erupting with a projection of vomitive flame that Ariahn narrowly escaped, her companion stepping forth to absorb the brunt of it upon his wide shield. Another Templar came to join them then, seizing the opportunity to cut a wide arch from such an angle that it ripped through the embodiment of fire.

The swell of pride and euphoric victory that rose in her chest was soon shattered as a blow landed heavily against her helmet, powerful enough to send her entire frame flying into the adjacent wall, the sound of crushing armor hardly penetrating the loud ringing that consumed her mind. The pain was bearable, the noise in her head excruciating. Still, it was not enough to hinder her from shifting into a defensive stance just in time to block another blow on the width of her lyrium infused blade.

Amethyst eyes ablaze with hatred lit upon the mutilated beast that had assaulted her, the twisted shape and putrid odors permeating the air surrounding that unholy abomination caused a wave of nausea to disrupt her innards. Pushing back against the gnarled hand which had foolishly gripped at her sword, Ariahn loosened a feral growl while simultaneously twisting the haft of her weapon and carving a path straight through the outstretched limb.

A horrible cry of anguish set her ears to ringing again, but the petite woman wasted no time in capitalizing on the shock he suffered by watching the filleted flesh fall. In one adept motion the large blade was swung up and around to smoothly decapitate the screaming monstrosity, sending his newly detached head rolling across the dirt, the body falling in a limp heap at her feet. The force of motion necessary to sever bones in such a manner had taxed her muscles to their limit, the impact reverberating through her own limbs as a very unpleasant consequence.

The battle had been won, though, a fact that was relished as she looked around to survey the work her comrades had accomplished. Everything had happened so fast it was like a blur already too hazy to recall, while each of them appeared entirely drained by the short scrimmage.

“That was foolish, Lieutenant.” The gruff tone drew her eyes to Captain Torgen, one foot propped atop the disembodied head, a mangled expression of empty horror staring back at her.

The dull ringing remained, as if caught in the confines of her helmet, instigating an abrupt removal of the single piece of armor. “My apologies, Captain.” Sincerity was there, in her breathy tone, but dampened by the following query, “Which part?” Without her helm to help confine them, fair golden locks rebelled in a tousled mass about her face, the pointed tips of her ears jutting out on either side as proud sentinels, blatant reminders of her elven heritage. 

Either the comment itself or the sudden disregard for protocol midst a potentially dangerous setting got her a glower, then an exasperated sigh as the man kicked the fleshy skull over to a younger soldier and began to ignore her completely. “Bag it up, Warren. We’re done here.”

The aftermath of their hunts usually felt like this, a mixed jumble of relief, exhaustion, and discomfort. A slow murmur of chatter between some of the men could be heard as they began to gather up whatever artifacts might be deemed useful, including the head, before departing the creepy tunnel. Having been the first to enter the cavernous dwelling, she lingered behind and remained the last to step back out into the stormy evening air.

The crackles of magic had already begun to dissipate, but there was still something electrifying in the air, and a thunderous rumble above spoke to the cause. Casting a brief glance up just as a spark of lightning flashed amid the angry clouds, Ariahn felt a chill once again slide down along her spine. It was an odd sensation, as if someone lurked in the surrounding shadows to quietly observe her and the others in their retreat from the desecrated dwelling.

Sparing another moment to look out across the fields, the bright amethyst pools were drawn to darker shadows amid the nearby treeline, holding there briefly before she finally turned away to join the others, firmly replacing her helmet atop the now windblown tendrils that tried vainly to disrupt her view. It would be a long trek back to Amaranthine, plenty of time to mull over the meaning behind those few words the apostate had uttered before battle. If they were not who he had expected when setting up that cursed ritual, what or who could they be leaving behind in Denerim?

\--------------------------------

Burning heat lapped dangerously at the edges of his existence - though it was not a physical pain, he knew it to be as real a hazard as any scorching fire he might encounter elsewhere. Yet he stood, undaunted, staring in the face of hell itself; molten, deformed, grotesque, a bastardization of the most innate emotions of man. His sympathies were not swayed. Rage was one of the lowest tier of demons, a base urge that all possessed, and this one hadn’t even the intellect to speak before it elected an attempt to possess him. A foolish misstep, the mage decided, as he was not so easily subdued. Possession was for the weak of mind or the desperate; he was neither. As the flames threatened to consume, he drew upon the energy around him to fling it back, a mental push that succeeding in its purpose. The demon, boiling body and all, stopped a safe distance from the man, the impact angering it more. It opened its disgusting maw, spewing sparks, ash, and making a depressingly lackluster mockery of a dragon imitation, in the apostate’s opinion.

His limited patience had worn slim. Lifting his hand, he conjured a flurry of frost to consume the demon; it was not his strongest element, but he understood the basics enough to overwhelm the beast so weak to such. Incapacitated creature that it became, he saw little other reason to remain. A few short moments passed before his eyes opened to the realm of reality, that of flesh and blood, and he stared at the sphere’s dying glow. It had been a useless endeavor, and his mind now pondered why such trickery had been used. The other apostate could not suppose he would have been vexed by such a beast, not unless his intellect was indeed far below what the present man had originally taken him for. Then it was a delay tactic… Perhaps he was biding time in an attempt to come in pursuit? Golden eyes turned towards the door, considering the likelihood of such a foray in silence before he dismissed it as unlikely; the other mage was too much a coward.

Standing up, he retrieved the relic and strode evenly back to his table of artifacts. Had he needed the time to get a message to the others? Having tracked him here, with the skull still in his possession, the hunter had presumed a betrayal and separation had taken root. Why else would the criminals part ways? It was not as though he was an expert in the psychology of low-lives, and perhaps that was the issue, but still… He could not fathom what the man thought to gain. He would have known he would be discovered. He must have known that he would be hunted again. The apostate would not leave until he had what he needed; and if he wasn’t receiving it willingly, he was prepared to take it.

The hulking male stood over the contrasting diminutive and decaying desk upon which some valuables had been unpacked, a sigh escaping expansive lungs. His journey was taking too long - but he could not return empty handed. Large, strong hands moved with surprising dexterity as he carefully packed up each relic, wrapping them in simple cloth for protection before storing them in a large pack. He had found several in Denerim, but there were more still missing. It was such a tedious, arduous task, made more so by the vermin who blocked his path. He had little intention of allowing such fools to continue to draw breath.

Ah, yes, that was likely what the apostate was planning… He had given a bad lead, knowing he would return. An ambush? Undoubtedly. Swinging his pack onto his back, the large man pulled up his hood, guarding the silver hair and ebony horns that curved elegantly down from his crown, sprouting from his temples to mark him as one of the Tal'Vashoth. Some might mistake it as the Qunari, but that life had left him some time ago. He did not waste much time to depart the little hovel, leaving what books were worthless to his goal and carrying only the essentials and the artifacts. Taking his staff in hand, he pushed the door open to the night air.

The gust that rushed to greet him was chilling and full of a powerful energy. Above, the sky was black, swirling in turmoil as a storm brewed up a ferocious onslaught that threatened to unleash its savagery at any moment. Not yet, though, he knew it would wait a little longer. The ruin he was hiding in lay just on the outskirts of the lower city of Denerim. Few came this way, as the soil was left infertile by the blight, and many came back sick who attempted to linger long about the cluster of shitty buildings. He took several steps to the side, bending his bulk around the edge of the home to spy a creature slumbering there. His mount, one might presume, as it seemed to know him when it stirred, ever so briefly. He tied the bag of artifacts to a saddle band about its neck, gave a faint grunt, and then left the beast without further command, tracing the steps he had already taken once that day.

For being evening, there was an odd buzz among the houses of the villagers he skirted by. More lights were on than ought to be, given the hour and the turn of the weather, yet there was a faint murmur from almost every home that lined the lower farmlands. The anomaly lead to a vague interest in the stoic brute, and he lingered in the shadows by one just long enough to overhear the lively exchange that a small group was having within.

“Oh, you should have seen them! All silver and gleaming, Andraste’s light was on their heads, I tell ya! And I helped them! Yes! Oh, they needed my direction, let me tell you…”

The gruff words were enough insight to make the vague intrigue dissipate; the man carried on unperturbed by the activity, moving deftly from one shadow to another. The news did encourage him to venture farther still from the main roads, keeping to the line of the trees as he made his progress. A master of the stealth he may not have been, but any apostate living in Andrastian lands might likely claim to have some honing of the skill beneath their belt. It came with the necessity of their station. It did not take him long to navigate the ebony shaded undergrowth to his destination without incident.

Before it came into view, he could feel it. It pulsated in the air as voracious as the storm brewing overhead, filling the atmosphere with a vile energy that brought an acrid taste to his senses. Every muscle in his taut frame tensed, his hold upon his bladed staff tightening as he moved closer and closer to his destination. Neighing of horses on edge alerted him even before he noted the open door from his spot amongst the trees. Five horses in armor plates stomped on the ground some twenty feet from the abandoned home. Within, he knew the apostate to be concocting some scheme, a scheme which it seems he was beaten to confront.

A mild sense of amusement touched him, though it did not make it so far as to display on his features. His cold golden gaze turned to the opened door, watching quietly… The shift was palpable. The energy, so vile and twisted as it was, was sliced through in a matter of moments; he could feel it sever, feel the magic ebb away and fade back from whence it came. Several more minutes were needed before they filed out; five in silver armor, the emblem of their holy order on their chests. The garb wasn’t so shiny as one might expect, somewhat battered and scorch marked as it was, shields blackened and swords blooded. But they were Templars in all their glory, he knew on sight.

He was very still, very quiet, and unwavering in his observation. The first four did not linger long about the door, moving promptly to the horses, but the fifth, who was lacking a helmet on her head, paused to scan her surroundings. At least, by the taper of her armor and her diminutive size, comparatively, he assumed this to be a she-elf. Golden hair and angular ears were visible even from this distance, though he could make out little else. There was a brief moment, when her eyes turned onto him, that he half suspected he had been discovered. She held his gaze, the stare unfaltering. A movement now would be a proclamation of defeat, and only part of him doubted that the shadows would not hold. The rest was quite sure it was a mere coincidence.

It seems the rest was right; the Templar donned her helmet once more, and moved on to join her comrades. He waited several minutes after they mounted and rode away before approaching the silent and still cottage. Now, the sky decided to begin its release; several drops fell to dampen his cloak before he entered the still open door. Darkness was all that awaited him, but such was hardly enough to deter a search. He expected they would have overlooked things which seemed benign, even if they had already dispatched with the liar for him. He held up a hand and summoned a low fire, the dull glow revealing a hole upon the ground. It was into there that his prey must have ferreted away; previously, he had simply been in the large chamber beyond the entrance. Typical vermin, hiding and cowardly escaping behind tricks and traps.

His search was swift, despite how it was hindered by the debris. A headless, mangled corpse he identified as the former apostate; a snarl escaped his sewn lips at the sight - abomination. Such a pathetic creature. He moved on, taking note that the Templars had already sorted through his belongings, no doubt claiming anything suspected of magical properties. He would have to settle for the more mundane. Papers. It took a few minutes, a few tedious skimming of nonsensical ramblings before he narrowed it down to a couple bits. One was an order list of sellers, and their purchases - useful for later, he expected. The other was a letter unsent, detailing his encounter with a suspicious member and stating he would ‘deal with’ it. It seemed to imply the others had moved westward, perhaps seeking buyers among the dwarves, given the context. Or were they buying from them… It mattered little. Grunting, the man stored the first and left the latter, finding it useless to keep on hand.

He departed the dilapidated structure with little delay, greeted by a full downpour. Thunder bellowed above as tongues of lightning assaulted the earth in areas unseen. An angry dragon, he compared it to, punishing the disgusting humans beneath. The uncomfortable situation mattered little to him - he had to leave before those Templars made matters complicated. He had no desire to get caught up in their schemes. He had to finish his job and return before it was too late.

He found his mount waiting for him at the edge of the village, squawking out a complaint of the rain. He gave it a pat, but paid it little mind otherwise. He had places to go and people to kill.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.


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